


Help

by shakespeareanfish



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 13:09:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakespeareanfish/pseuds/shakespeareanfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan tries to introduce Morse to the music that normal people like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Help

Joan had insisted that he take it. “You might like something different for once,” she’d said. “Something that doesn’t involve stout ladies in nightgowns singing their lungs out on their dying breaths.” Morse had laughed, unable to come back with a retort. Now, on Saturday night, he had nothing else to do, and this seemed the best time to confront it. Gingerly, he put the record on, then turned down the volume. The first word— _Help!_ —still exploded across the room.

It was, he had to admit, easier listening than he’d expected. Unlike the stout ladies’ arias, it didn’t take much concentration; the music just got into your head and kept going. All the lyrics appeared to be about more or less the same thing, but, by the end of side one, he could see why Joan enjoyed it.

The next-to-last song was called “Yesterday.” As soon as it ended, he repositioned the needle and played it again.

* * *

Morse rang the Thursdays’ doorbell and waited what seemed like an hour for it to be answered. “Come in, dear,” Win said. “I’m afraid Fred’s out, if you wanted to see him.”

He gave an unnecessary cough. “Actually, I was wondering if Joan’s here. She—she lent me a pop record, and I came to return it.”

Win looked surprised, but not at all displeased. “Well, she’s just upstairs.”

He climbed up and went down the hall. The door to the room at the end was partially open, and a light was on. Looking inside, he saw Joan curled up on her bed, reading a book, and gently knocked on the doorframe. She saw him and leaped up. “Morse! Oh, you’ve listened to it? What did you think, then.”

He affected as much mock solemnity as he could. “Some of the choices in harmonization are interesting, but, in general, the lyrics are repetitive and lack emotional depth.”

“Which means,” Joan said, “that you probably didn’t think it was half bad.” She paused. “What have you got there?”

He held out the record in his other hand. “Puccini’s _Turandot_ ,” he replied, with a smile. “You might like something different for once.”


End file.
